


Smooth-Skinned He Seemed, of Rosy Breath

by Angelike



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, POV Third Person, Plot What Plot, Present Tense, Sex, Short Story, bottom!Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-02
Updated: 2009-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelike/pseuds/Angelike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur returns from training early. Merlin clearly wasn't expecting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smooth-Skinned He Seemed, of Rosy Breath

**Author's Note:**

> Title drawn from the poem ["In Arthur's House"](http://www.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/wmhouse.htm) by William Morris.

# I.

Arthur’s heart stutters when he sees him and for one long moment he forgets to breathe, forgets how to do anything but _want_.

Merlin is lying in the middle of the bed. Naked, but for the familiar blue of the kerchief at his neck and the pitifully darned stockings bunching around his lust-curled feet, one toe poking conspicuously out of a fraying hole. He should look ridiculous. He doesn’t. Oh—_gods_—he really doesn’t.

Tense with hunger, Arthur devours the erotic image before him with greedy eyes, sliding eagerly along the glistening pale skin, over the taut contours and smooth dips of supple flesh. He’s slender and gawky and not at all like the soft ladies or battle-scarred knights the prince favors, but when the young man parts his legs with shameless purpose, reaching down to probe the opening between his thighs with fingers slick with his own come, Arthur knows he’s never seen anyone more beautiful. Merlin’s face is partially obscured from view by the bed-curtains (no doubt the reason Arthur’s intrusion on this intimate moment has thus far remained blessedly unnoticed), but he can still see the way he arches back against the pillows, offering his barred neck to his imagined lover as his finger curls _just so_ and finds that special place inside him that makes him pant and sob. So too can Arthur see his mouth move in silent pleas, mouthing one word again and again: “Arthur.”

Sucking in air through his teeth in a shaky hiss, Arthur pushes the door firmly closed behind him, the soft click of the latch catching impossibly loud to his heightened senses, but the vision on the bed does not falter in his lazy strokes. Merlin is teasing himself with three fingers now, the other hand expertly working his blood-darkened arousal. Arthur can’t look away.

He’s dreaming. He must be. Training was cut short today, but he obviously had spent too long training under the sweltering sun nonetheless. Now the heatsickness is upon him, causing him to see things that are not there. Gaius and, more recently, Merlin have been constantly reminding him that neither rank nor valor will protect him from the rigors of this unusually harsh summer; perhaps he should have heeded their warnings and taken precautions. His father will be furious that he has been struck down by something that might have so easily been prevented. Vicious rumors will fly regarding the Crown Prince’s feeble health and general carelessness. The royal physician’s miraculous eyebrows will probably crawl right of his face in a fit of tut-tutting. Morgana, of course, will gloat. Still, his idiot servant will probably be more than minimally dutiful and obliging (for once) and it isn’t as if hallucinating about said servant fucking himself into ecstasy in the middle of the royal bed is all that awful (or new), so it might all be worth it in the long run.

Only he’s pretty sure hallucinations aren’t supposed to be this vivid.

# II.

“Arthur!” Merlin cries as he is at last driven over the edge, surging forward—and Arthur is looking into his eyes as he falls, the evidence of his pleasure spilling over his quivering belly. Merlin’s gaze is blue, then gold, then impossibly dark as realization strikes at last. The blood drains from Merlin’s face in an instant, all traces of flushing licentiousness replaced with absolute horror. “Arthur,” he says again, but this time it is a terrified whisper. “Oh, please, no.”

That’s when he knows for sure that what he’s seeing is real: not even in his worst nightmares has Merlin had cause to look upon him in fear. On anyone else, he would expect –_demand_—a certain level of fear in such a delicate situation, but Arthur aches a little to see that same emotion reflected in the expression of someone he has come to view as a trusted friend and loyal companion. Darkly, he recalls that Merlin hadn’t even looked at him like that when he finally managed a fumbling confession of his secret all those months ago (which Arthur had already been perfectly aware of, though he would never admit to it—he’d enjoyed putting on a show of outrageous indignation a bit too much, perhaps, in light of Merlin’s puppy-like eagerness to please). Clearly the idiot’s priorities were a bit skewered. By rights he could have Merlin flogged for such a gross act of indecency, but that was hardly comparable to, say, _execution_.

And for pity’s sake, doesn’t Merlin know him at all?

Arthur had taken great pains to hide his inappropriate desires (as had Merlin, it would seem—the irony was not lost on him), but even so Merlin ought to know that—receptive to the news of his manservant’s lust or not—he would never be unduly cruel. At worst, he might have laughed and he certainly would have teased him mercilessly for the rest of eternity, but he would have refused him gently–

Oh. Well, that changes things.

Frowning, his gaze sharpens, taking in Merlin’s trembling form with new sight: ghastly white, eyes miserably adverted, lips pursed in a silent sob, arms clinging desperately to the pillow currently preserving his modesty—this is not a man awaiting retribution. This is a man bracing himself for a broken heart. It is one thing to tell yourself your feelings can never be returned; it’s quite another to know it.

There are two ways this could go.

There is only one Arthur can live with.

He locks the door.

# III.

The prince stalks toward the bed, slow and predatory, and he must strike an imposing image because Merlin recoils, inching back and darting furtive glances past Arthur to the door behind him—as if contemplating escape. If he tries to flee, Arthur might be tempted to let him. It could be amusing to see how far he gets before he remembers he’s virtually starkers. But, then again, his father would probably choose that moment to roam the halls. That could be a bit of a mood killer.

Lips curling wickedly, he pauses at the edge of the bed and leans in even as Merlin leans nervously back. “Merlin,” he starts, dangerous and low, and the poor boy whimpers, “you seem very _comfortable_ on my bed. Why is that?”

Merlin shakes his head wretchedly and attempts to curl further in on himself, burying his head down into the pillow. Arthur doesn’t like that. So he does something about it: one hand shoots out to wrap around one bicep in a bruising grip, yanking his startled prey off balance as the other threads through disheveled curls, forcing his face upward. Mere centimeters separate their lips. Arthur can feel the other boy’s breath mingling with his own, can smell the salty tang of sex on his skin. Intoxicating. His grip tightens. Merlin’s whimpers, but Arthur looks deep into those pleading blue eyes and does not budge: “I asked you a question, _servant_.”

“Sire,” Merlin croaks, “please, can’t we just forget this ever happened?” His eyes are suspiciously wet. Arthur experiences a moment of remorse. It fades. Forgetting isn’t an option.

“You’ve done this before,” he spits, “haven’t you—touched yourself on _my_ bed, with _my_ name on your lips?”

“Yes,” Merlin admits brokenly, “yes, it’s true.”

“I bet you fantasized about fucking my mouth. You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Merlin sobs in reply. “I bet you wished it was my cock up your arse, too: plunging deep, filling you, driving you mad. Fingers never quite satisfy do they?”

“Stop.”

“Did you ever think of fucking _my_ arse?” Merlin closes his eyes, tries to pull away. Arthur digs his nails ruthlessly into his scalp and yanks his hair, ignoring his yelp of pain. He will have his way. Merlin isn’t allowed to look away. “I’d be tight for you,” he adds offhandedly, as if remarking on the day’s weather. “Few men have been privy to that particular pleasure.”

“Please, stop.” Merlin is openly weeping now, tears trickling down his cheeks. He is beautiful. So beautiful. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t what?” he asks innocently, loosening his hold on his captive’s arm, trailing tenderly down bare skin until he reaches his goal. In an instant Merlin’s feathered shield is gone, hitting the wall across the room with a soft thump. Merlin yelps in surprised dismay, hurriedly pulling his knees up, but the damage has been done. “Don’t reveal your perversity for what it is?” Arthur gloats, both hands falling to rest on locked knees, parting them, leaving Merlin open and vulnerable to his mocking gaze. “Even now you’re hard for me. Tell me: who gave you permission to so lewdly disrespect and defile your lord?”

“It’s not like that!”

“Who gave you permission to strip bare in this room, on this bed?”

“Sire, please…”

“Who gave you permission to touch yourself?”

“Please!”

All laughter falls from Arthur’s face and suddenly his hand is on Merlin’s cock and the damn fool is so frightened that he can’t even cry. Voice cold and unrelenting, he stakes his claim: “This is mine. You aren’t to come without my say-so. Is that clear?” Then Arthur covers Merlin’s mouth with his own, swallowing his response with a moan.

When Merlin’s fingers knot in his tunic, pulling him closer, Arthur knows his ruse has been forgiven. “Prat,” Merlin sighs into his mouth with a shaky laugh, “you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Arthur chuckles and deepens the kiss.

# IV.

Merlin must have been sneaking sweets in the kitchen again, because he tastes like berries and cream—Arthur’s new favorite dessert. “Delicious,” he says when they finally part, smacking his lips playfully. Then, in a true princely (read: diabolical) fashion, he squeezes the leaking organ still under his power, eliciting a familiar murmur of pleasure, and strokes: once, again, and lets go, deaf to Merlin’s mewl of protest. Arthur brings his soiled fingers to his lips, peering through thick eyelashes to make sure he has Merlin’s undivided attention, and laps at the sticky juices.

Merlin whimpers. This time without fear or sorrow.

“Ambrosia,” he moans, tongue flicking hypnotically, “fit for a king.”

With a strangled cry, Merlin lunges forward, capturing Arthur’s tongue with an all-encompassing savagery that has hitherto been absent. Content to submit to Merlin’s passion, Arthur yields, allowing his new lover to plunder his mouth in a sensual parody of lovemaking. “Can’t believe this is real,” Merlin pants in between kisses. “Wanted this for so long.” Frantic hands tangle the laces of the prince’s tunic. “Need you, need this, need–” Merlin tugs violently at the strings until Arthur takes pity on him and loosens the ties with a put-upon sigh (“You really are the worst manservant ever!”), shedding his own shirt and (when it becomes clear that Merlin’s mind is too addled to manage something so simple as a belt) trousers. Merlin manages to divest him of his smallclothes admirably well.

Somehow Arthur ends up on his back, his breathless manservant kneeling between his legs, admiring his body with a peculiar mixture of insolence and awe. Grinning, Arthur flexes his muscles and stretches, arcing like a cat, enjoying the becoming flush darkening Merlin’s cheeks and ears. He knows what he must look like, splayed out like this: years of battle-training have shaped him well. And, if the way Merlin licks his lips when he sets his sights on the cock jutting proudly from the sparse nest of gold curls at his groin is anything to go by, the family jewels are nothing to scoff at either. “I–” Merlin swallows thickly. “I want to taste you.”

“Do it.”

Merlin’s mouth is magic: warm, wet, and if the way that sinful tongue is working him isn’t illegal, it ought to be. The fact that the boy obviously has no concept of “gag reflex” doesn’t do much for Arthur’s pride. It’s not long before Arthur is the one writhing in rapture, biting back his groans—and it’s really all he can do not to explode like some inexperienced snot-nosed brat. Eyes crossing, fingers twisting in once more in soft locks, he wonders who taught Merlin how to do this, how to suck a man off with a skill all the two-bit whores in Camelot would be envious of. Jealously twists in his chest, cold and ugly, and he just as he’s seriously contemplating murder Merlin swallows him down to the root and _hums_—at which point he experiences a change of heart, generously deciding that he might pardon the fellow after all, perhaps offer him a castle or two in blissful gratitude: “Nygh!” Desperately, Arthur claws at his shoulders, simultaneously thrusting forward even as shoves Merlin away.

Impishly, Merlin grins: “Too much for you, _my lord_?” Cheeky bastard.

“No,” Arthur says through gritted teeth, “it’s just—been a while. And when I come, I want to be in you.” Then, uncertain: “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Sire, I–”

“Arthur.”

“What?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. “If any situation calls for a lack of formality,” he says, “it’s this one. I’m not a prince right now. I’m just—your lover.”

Merlin’s smile softens into something sweet, something Arthur has never seen before.

“Arthur,” he murmurs, voice a caress—a benediction, “I would like nothing more than for you to make love to me.”

# V.

Merlin doesn’t resist when Arthur tightly binds his wrists above his head with his own neckerchief. His smile doesn’t falter. His eyes, tinged with gold, are wide and trusting. He bends to Arthur’s unspoken demands like a limpet. If he were so accommodating about his duties, Arthur fancies he might be less tempted to fire him every other Tuesday.

The peace couldn’t last, of course: everything between them has always been a battle of wills. This would be no different.

To Merlin’s credit, he holds his tongue a good deal longer than Arthur expected him to. Especially considering how panicked he’d looked when Arthur had procured the feather. Arthur could have sworn Merlin was going to cry again when he started tickling over hypersensitive skin, but he was feeling a little mean and couldn’t resist. “You know,” Arthur says huskily, trailing the feather along the inside of one thigh, pebbled with gooseflesh, purposefully avoiding the jutting cock attempting to demand his attention, “for months I’ve lain here, in this bed, thinking about you.” The feather dips into a belly-button, eliciting a plaintive squeal, and along well-defined ribs (inwardly Arthur resolves to have a quiet talk with the kitchen staff—he refuses to have an emaciated lover). “Sometimes I thought I could almost smell you.” He circles pebbled nipples thoughtfully. “I guess wasn’t imagining things.” The feather trails back down. “You’ve been driving me crazy.” The feather brushes lightly over the tip of Merlin’s desire and the boy’s restraint shatters like so much glass.

“Touch me, damn you!” he commands, eyes wild and bucking against his bonds. They both know it’s for show: Merlin could call upon his magic to free himself at any moment. “Please, Arthur, please touch me.”

The feather teases up and down the underside of Merlin’s shaft. “But,” Arthur observes silkily, “I am touching you.”

“Please!”

“Is this not enough for you?” Arthur frowns with exaggerated distress. “How do you want me to touch you?”

“Your hands,” comes the gasped response. “Your hands. On me. Now.”

“My hands,” he blinks, discarding the feather. “On you?” Innocently, he rests them on Merlin’s shoulders, leaning over him to peer into swirling blue-gold depths. “Like this?”

“Gods, _please_!”

“Still not enough? Where do you want me to touch you?” He scrapes his nails downward and pauses at his nipples, rolling them between nimble fingers. “Here?” Merlin’s breath hitches and his face scrunches endearingly. “No?” He grasps Merlin’s cock for the second time that day, this time taking the time to appreciate its texture, its weight, the way it fit in his hand. “How about here?” He begins to pump him, slowly at first, enjoying Merlin’s sighs of contented pleasure, then experimentally varying in speed and pressure. Abruptly, when he knows Merlin has become complacent, he stops. Merlin has barely begun to form his protest when Arthur settles between his legs, and presses one testing finger to his puckered entrance. “Or maybe,” he ponders, “you would prefer here?”

“Yes, there,” Merlin babbles nonsensically, “please! Good! So good!”

“Such an eager little sex kitten, aren’t you, Merlin?” Arthur laughs fondly, procuring the nondescript bottle of oil he keeps near the bed for emergencies. Liberally, he coats his own neglected arousal and fingers, acutely aware of his audience. Once he’s satisfied that all will proceed smoothly, he bends down to steal a kiss and penetrates Merlin with one, then two, fingers. He’s inordinately pleased by how easily his lover opens to him. “Already nice and stretched for me, too,” he comments, nipping affectionately at Merlin’s lip. “I bet I could slide into you right this minute with no resistance. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Arthur, you insufferable prat!” Merlin snarls. “Stop teasing me!”

“Well,” says Arthur with a smirk, “since you asked so nicely.” And he sinks home.

Merlin’s legs lock around him, and vaguely it registers that he’s still wearing those sorry excuses for stockings, the fabric rubbing at his back as he moves. For some reason he finds this hilarious and has to ask, in between frantic thrusts (so-good-so-good-so-good): “Why aren’t you naked?”

Melin’s body shakes with humor, blunt nails digging into Arthur’s shoulders, as he offers his typically sassy retort: “Stop complaining. The socks are sexy. They totally turn you on. Just try and deny it!” Arthur chooses not to dignify that with a response, instead silencing Merlin with a kiss.

They don’t last long—can’t, not with so many months of unspoken desire present in every kiss, every touch, every stroke, every thrust. Merlin falls first: clinging, clawing, crying—and there are words, so many words; mostly his babble doesn’t make much sense (might not even be English), but there is one phrase that rings clear, simultaneously breaking him apart and building him up again: “I love you.”

The words echo in Arthur’s mind, remaking the world as he spirals into oblivion.

He doesn’t love Merlin—not like that. Not yet. But he wants him. Needs him. He’s important—precious. Someday, soon perhaps, Arthur will be able to say those words back. But not today.

Today he presses chaste lips to Merlin’s forehead and listens to him breathe. This isn’t a dream. This is better.

# VI.

Later—much later—when they reluctantly crawl out of bed to prepare for dinner, Merlin is still wearing those stupid socks. But Arthur is wearing the neckerchief.


End file.
